trembling hands and fitting in old shoes
by Gospel Stonemad
Summary: Doctor Stephen Strange doesn't become the Sorcerer Supreme overnight. He's barely the Master of the New York Sanctum. But he's trying. And he's learning. Sometimes, that's all you can do.


trembling hands and fitting in old shoes

His own ego, long hours spent at the hospital, and countless surgeries had kept Stephen Strange away from the world news for quite a while. Adding the year he spent in Nepal studying sorcery and the months that followed where he became the Master of the New York Sanctum, Dr. Stephen Strange was embarrassingly behind current events.

Master of the Mystic Arts didn't lend itself to having any need for knowing about pop culture, though, so he went about his day reading every book in Wong's library and those in his own, practicing, and doing the occasional grocery shopping.

(Because, _damn it Wong_ , giving up material goods did not mean giving up _eating_.

And growing any type of 'edible' food at the Sanctum just... it just sounded like a mistake waiting to happen. The tomatoes might make him grow another head or something just as ridiculous.)

"And one with tuna, please," the Master of the Mystic Arts said, digging around his back pocket for a wallet that seemed to come and go as it pleased. It was one of the more helpful things at the Sanctum and he didn't ask where it got the money—just that it had the exact amount he needed every time.

A television was on in the corner, the sound of it drowned out by the late lunch rush.

Stephen grabbed his paper bag of sandwiches, left a tip in the glass jar, and was about to push through the doors when something about 'accords' and 'Avengers' caught his attention.

There was a blonde reporter on the screen, looking into the camera with an old picture of a smiling Steve Rogers an inch from her face. "—The United Nations is still on the lookout for Captain Steve Rogers, otherwise known as Captain America, after someone matching his description was caught on video in Venezuela."

The video played, but Stephen was already out the door, vanishing into the crowd of people.

oOo

Getting a laptop to work in the Sanctum was like trying to wrestle a cat into a full bathtub. Not a small cat, either. Probably a Maine Coon with unclipped claws and the temperament of a black mamba. Wong entered the library to find six books spread out across the table, broken glass, and the Cloak of Levitation keeping well away from all of it.

The relic still watched it all, though; like someone watches someone mouthing off and about to get punched in the face.

Stephen stood in front of a laptop with golden sparks snapping at the tips of his fingers. He had his legs apart, hands up in a defensive position and—

The laptop exploded. More scorch marks joined those already on the table which were cleared away by a simple wave of a hand.

"Really? _Really_?" Stephen looked up at the ceiling.

Around him, the Sanctum rumbled.

oOo

Heavy concentrations of magic tended to short wire electronics. The poor things got fried from too much energy going through them. A conductor of electricity worked just as well with magic, it seemed.

Which was odd, because his computer had worked in Kamar-Taj where there must have been more magic with all the students practicing and working. It took three days of extensive research to find out that the Sanctum Sanctorum was built upon a nerve centre of Ley Lines—Dragon Lines, to be exact—that lay beneath the ground. The veins of mystical energy that run through the earth.

Kamar-Taj sat upon one.

The New York Sanctum sat upon _four_.

(That wasn't uncommon, as each of the Sanctums sat upon a heavy convergence of magic. It was one of the reasons they had stood for so long.)

He had to do his own history of the building, reading the journals of the Masters who had been there before, newspaper articles clipped out into heavy books, and urban folk tales on the internet.

The building was a ghost legend told by the people in Greenwich.

Haunted.

Bloody.

 _Magical._

Wong had said that the Sanctum had been part of Agamotto's shield to protect the Earth from dimensional and spiritual dangers. It made sense that it hadn't been a building that whole time.

There was no original builder, that's the one thing everyone could agree on. It was, coincidentally, the only thing _anyone_ could agree on, because no one knew who had rebuilt it all the numerous times it had burned down, collapsed, or just plain vanished.

It was as if the Sanctum simply just grew back on its own.

Like a stubborn weed.

Agamotto had made it into a Sanctum, but the Sorcerer Supremes that followed after him could not watch over it the way it should have been. A seal was placed and left to grow and wither as will allowed it, with only the Ancient One bringing more focus into harnessing the shields around the earth and guarding them.

Over hundreds of years, the townhouse had been a flophouse for beatniks and streak mystics, a notoriously bacchanalian speakeasy, perhaps what could have been a satanic supper club, a failed nunnery, and the lair of a puritan Witchfinder who tortured immigrants in the basement.

Before anything had been built on the land, it had been a potter's field. A mass grave for paupers—most of which came from New York's first prison that sat down by the Hudson.

And even before _that_ , the Wappinger Tribe used it for vision quests.

With all the magical energy embedded in the walls, it was easy to see why electronics wouldn't work normally. There was simply too much energy in the air.

Stephen moved around the house, doing his own research, finding how the lights, the fridge, and the televisions worked. The wires led to nothing, the pipes into dry ground.

Everything was supplied by magic.

Stephen found the spells that had been used to take the Sanctum off the grid and applied them to what he could—both as practice and for entertainment. When he was done, the Master of New York settled in his attic, the computer hovering in front of him, mug of tea to the right. It would never need to be charged again as long as he was close to magic.

It was a nice feeling.

After doing the same thing to his phone and, using the Dragon Lines as a worldwide landline, Stephen realized that he'd never have to suffer through dropped calls ever again.

"We're not _Harry Potter_ ," He told Wong, doing the same thing to the librarian's phone. "Pretending that science and magic should never be combined is like spending your life only learning one thing and then pretending you know everything outside that one particular thing."

"Like you?" Wong said, a small smile on his face as he picked up his finished phone. It was still shooting out small, red sparks, but they settled down after a moment or so.

Stephen gasped and pressed a hand to his chest. "I think I've gotten better."

The sparring session that afternoon proved that, yes, he might've gotten better, but he was nowhere _near_ done learning.

oOo

Giving up the life of being the best neurologist in the world meant changes. No fancy car—not that Stephen Strange would ever want to drive again. Even thinking about getting behind the wheel made his chest tighten and stones to drop in his stomach—no black tie events—not to say he didn't still have his tuxedos and suits—and no need to dress like he was someone important.

Zipper sweatshirt, an old grey t-shirt, and a pair of worn down jogging pants was all he needed to go to the local store.

"What?" Stephen frowned as Wong cast a judgemental eye over his body. "I'm going _grocery_ shopping."

"The clothes maketh the man."

The groan rose up through Stephen's chest and he dodged around Wong, heading towards the stairs. "Don't quote _Kingsman_ at me. I spent half my life playing dress up; I can get some groceries in something _comfortable_."

"They smell like sweat!"

"Good!" Stephen called back from the bottom of the steps, "no one will bother me, then!"

oOo

Some five year old in her mother's grocery cart hadn't stopped watching Stephen since he walked over to the dairy section. He had waved at her, offered a small smile, and turned to the cheese, but her eyes were heavy anchors on his back.

Paediatricians were some of the most admirable people in the hospitals he worked at.

Not to mention that he was just an awkward pile of _suck_ with kids. The parents took the kids to the paediatrician. The paediatrician came to him. He did the surgery, talked to the parents afterward, never had to deal with anything other than a drugged out kid who was too loopy to care about his bedside manner.

It took a special person to deal with sick kids.

He was _not_ one of them.

But the girl kept staring and Stephen couldn't pay attention to the labels on the cheese so he looked around, made sure that no one else was looking, and turned a bit of dust into a butterfly. It fluttered over to the girl on iridescent blue wings and landed on her hand. For a full minute, it sat there, opening and closing the bright wings.

As the girl's mother turned away from the milk, the butterfly burst into bubbles that popped in a shower of purple glitter.

Stephen grabbed a pack of provolone and turned to find the rest of the items on his list.

oOo

The deli a few blocks down from 177a Bleecker Street was one of the only deli places that made ham and rye exactly how Wong liked it.

Which was why Stephen was handing cash over the counter when a man walked in with a gun. He wasn't a tall man, or a very intimidating man, but most of the attention went to the pistol being waved about anyway. The shop had been mostly empty at three in the afternoon with just the three employees, Stephen, and a single other customer in the corner.

"Get out of the way, old man."

 _I'm not that old_ , Stephen stepped out of the way more from surprise than anything. He blinked a couple of times, trying to refocus his thoughts. 'Man with a gun' didn't set off the same type of alarm bells it would have a couple years before.

Fighting a Dark Dimension God would do that.

(Dying hundreds of times under the hand of that same God would either rip someone to shreds or send them on a dissociative journey through their own life where danger never felt fully real.

Stephen had probably hit that stage. There had to be a sorcerer out there that had once been a psychologist.)

 _The grey hair is from_ _ **stress**_ _, not_ _ **age**_ _, you rotten little—_

He saw the gun rise, heard the safety click, and magic burned under his fingers and Stephen moved them in little shapes at his waist, hidden beneath the hem of his sleeves.

 _I'm only forty!_

Transmutation was one of the easiest and hardest of the various magiks to learn, mostly because it involved chemistry.

Lots of chemistry.

Stephen Strange had always had a knack for science.

The pistol sprayed the cashier in the face with a burst of water and rising panic was squashed by the boot of confusion.

"Wha—"

"I'll take that," Stephen stepped forward, pulling the water gun from the man's hand and shoved him into the counter. The edge caught the would-be-robber in the hip and sent him careening into the stand of chips. "Call the police, would you?" The sorcerer told one of the open mouthed employees and placed the harmless plastic down on the counter.

He grabbed his bag of sandwiches, muttering about dying his hair.

"Oh, can I get some extra mustard packets?"

The cashier gave them over with a trembling hand.

oOo

"Our job is not to stop robberies or men with guns!" Wong followed at Stephen's heels, "We're meant—"

"To defend the world against mystical threats, yes, I'm aware," rolling his eyes, Stephen set the bag of sandwiches on the kitchen counter and took a seat in front of the book he'd been reading before lunch had called both sorcerers. "I wasn't going to let him shoot a _kid_ —"

Wong pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Just... be careful, Stephen."

"Nobody noticed," Stephen turned to his book, rereading the paragraph he had left off on to get back into the rhythm of getting swallowed by the words.

"Someone always notices," Wong murmured.

oOo

There was a small courtyard at the back of the Sanctum. By the logic of physics, it shouldn't be there nor could it be as large as it was. But it existed.

Wong handed Stephen some seeds, a couple pots, and a watering can with just the instructions to 'do his best'.

"This is a mistake," Stephen told the sky, a bag of soil at his feet, a cup in one, shaking hand. Clouds had covered the sun, ozone on the air and threatening rain. The double glass doors leading into the kitchen were flung open, clearing out the stale air that had settled in the Sanctum over the winter. Wong was sitting at the table, drinking tea and watching with a glint to his eyes.

Using a levitation spell, Stephen started to lift the bag of soil and got a ball of energy thrown at the back of his head for his troubles.

" _What_?!" He shouted back to the kitchen.

"No magic!"

Was it rude to flip off your teacher?

Stephen left the dirt and sat down on the stone walkway to flip through the packets of seeds. Those he didn't care for went to the left. The rest to the right. Wong joined him after a while, watching quietly.

"Why the sudden desire to make me become a gardener?" Stephen scooped out cup after cup of soil, putting it into pots and digging out seeds to place in the dirt.

"What lessons do you think it will teach you?"

Stephen blinked once, twice, and looked down at the black dirt. Some had managed to get in under his nails, some clung to the lines in his palms, and some was dusted across the heavy scars that went from finger tip to wrist. He looked back up at the sky. The clouds had become darker, heavier. They'd have to go inside soon.

There was an apple tree blossoming against the fence, pink flowers creating stars against the leaves.

"Patience," Stephen said, remembering a different apple moving back and forth in time beneath his fingers. "That magic doesn't have to be used for everything."

Wong nodded. "Good," he said, "knowing the lesson will make it easier to learn it."

 _Also easier to cheat_ , Stephen thought and then wondered if he would. Looking down at the pot between his legs, the sorcerer frowned and laid his hands flat over the dirt. He had worked for his PhD. Worked for his Masters.

He can wait for plants to grow.

"One of the hardest lessons to learn is not to rush," Wong said. "You learned it as a doctor—now you must relearn it as a sorcerer."

The doorbell ringing interrupted Stephen's response and he stood, wiping his hands off on his pants. "Well, he said, walking towards the kitchen and, beyond, the front door. "As long as there's no judgement for what I'm patient with."

"No promises!" Wong called after him.

Stephen was still rolling his eyes when he opened the door.

There was a man on his doorstep wearing an undone black suit jacket, thin black tie, black pants, and a white shirt. He had polished shoes, sunglasses hiding his eyes, and slicked back hair.

"No solicitation," Stephen told him and shut the door.

The cabinets rattled in a house's imitation of laughter.

oOo

Kamar-Taj was never warm but it was reaching the time of the year where the heavy snow from the mountains was melting and water dripped from everything on everything. It also meant the snow turned into rain, creating a pleasant, soothing rhythm against the roof as Stephen read.

The Ancient One's private collection had remained untouched and Stephen flipped through papyrus and vellum heavy with ink.

Beyond the magic, it was moments like this that he enjoyed the most. Days where the world was quiet. Where he could sit back and _learn_. Students moved through the library, keeping quiet around the Master of New York.

"He defeated Dormammu," someone whispered.

 _Purple fire burns him to ashes in a millisecond. Pikes impale him, slicing through bone and muscle as if they're rice paper. An arm comes down upon his head, crushing him and the ground he stands on._

He wondered if Wong would let him break the rules and take a couple of the forbidden books back to the Sanctum with him.

oOo

Stephen gave it a good solid week before returning to the deli. He occupied his time with the gardening project, reading, and practicing in the mirror dimension before Wong successfully shoved him out the door. Greenwich Village used to be a bohemian neighbourhood—but the live-and-let-live lifestyle still settled over the townhouses and streets like a quilt.

Heading north, on the one-car street, Stephen passed a wall of iron fire escapes, various stores—a Soho Sushi that Wong grumbled was ' _okay_ '—an Irish pub, and J.W. Market with a wall of flowers on display. The School of Law (part of New York University that created a wall between the residential area and Washington Square Park) took up two blocks, split only in the middle by Sullivan Street that ended when it met trees and smooth, stone pathways.

Stephen stopped at the end of the street, halted by the light. He wondered while he stood there, what his life would have been like without the car accident, without the surgeries, without all of this.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and Stephen checked it more out of habit.

' _Stop stalling,'_ Wong had sent.

He had gone into neurology to help people but, over the years, the money had made him lose sight of what was supposed to be important.

 _It's not about you_ , the ancient one had said in her last moments, the snow falling around them. It never had been. Never will be.

Stephen turned on his heel to head back towards the shops and 177a Bleecker Street. The deli was as quietly bustling as always and he waited in line, hands in his pockets, and watched people pass outside the windows. A paper bag waited for him when he reached the counter.

"What's this?" He opened it after the cashier pushed it forward with a single finger. Two sandwiches were inside—Wong's ham and rye and his Rubin's Reuben—with extra packets of mustard. "Thank you," Stephen said absently, digging for his wallet. Visiting a couple times a week probably made his usual pretty easy—

A hand reached out and he paused, blinking, and looked up at the young woman behind the counter. "It's on the house," she said.

Stephen frowned. "I can't do that," he told her.

She shook her head with a small, wiry smile. "Boss' orders."

"Oh." _Well_. "Thank you," Stephen said, taking the bag.

When she turned to help the next customer, he dropped a twenty in the tip jar.

oOo

"Stephen Strange, I'm here on the behalf of the United States Government in regards to the Sokovia Accords—"

"Bye-bye."

The front door of the Sanctum Sanctorum slammed shut with an echoing _bang_.

oOo

Lights flashed, changing colours in the rhythm of the music, and Stephen winced when fireworks went off. "This is so bad for your ears!" he shouted above the noise, ignored by everyone except for Wong who stood beside him. Sorcerer garb had been traded for torn jeans and old t-shirts—all in the name of Beyoncé.

Music slammed into him like a physical entity, bass pulsing up through his knees and into every joint.

"Stop being a doctor for a moment," Wong managed to raise his voice over the speakers, "and enjoy it!"

Stephen rolled his eyes and more fire columns rose on stage, lighting up the crowd in bursts of white and red. Sweaty bodies pressed in all around him and he kept his hands carefully in front of him, making sure they couldn't be knocked around by the crowd.

A slower song soothed the thunderous energy of the last one.

Stephen took the time to lean over towards Wong. "I'm pretty sure sneaking into a Beyoncé concert is in the realm of 'selfish magic'," he said.

"You used the Eye of Agamotto to break the natural law!" Wong poked the Master of New York in the sternum. "To turn back _time_!"

Stephen stared at Wong, his eyebrows rising higher on his forehead. "And I saved us all!"

Wong motioned to the woman on stage. "Beyoncé saves me!"

"That doesn't even make sense!" Stephen threw his hands up in the air and, in the motion, saw a woman talking to a security guard and pointing in their direction. "Time to go," he said, nudging at Wong with his elbow. They stood up together, scooting past legs and swaying people before getting to the stairs and heading up towards the large hallways and the concession stands.

The area was empty and they walked around the exterior of the concert, humming to the music that was playing just beyond the florescent lights and concrete walls.

"Besides, Stephen," Wong spoke up in the lull of one song to the next, "there is a difference between using magic selfishly and taking a night off so you don't overwork yourself."

"I'm an American; it's written into our society to work until we die."

Wong scoffed. "The rest of the world lives just fine," he waved his hand dismissively.

"The rest of the world isn't based upon capitalistic bullshit." Stephen grinned as a surprised bark of a laugh escaped the other man. "I do appreciate this, though," he motioned to the walls around them. "Even if you didn't actually _buy_ tickets."

"Think of it as rebelling against 'capitalistic bullshit'."

oOo

Malebranchian Soul-Leeches weren't a daily occurrence in New York city. Massive, mile long bodies with the thickness of a car tire and skin just as thick, they lived in the mirror dimension, attaching onto people and slowly draining them of...

Well.

Their soul.

Stephen watched the one that had attached itself to the back of an elderly man who was carefully making his way down the street with a crooked cane and shaking footsteps. "Alright, alright," he muttered, shook out his arms, and tapped the leech on the side. "Hey," he said, not really able to think of anything else—who knew if it was sentient or not? Magic surprised him every day. " _Shoo_."

Thick, bulbous skin wrinkled as the leech let go of the man and turned, mouth gaping and filled with hundreds upon thousands of teeth. It screeched; mucus and saliva splattering across Stephen's front in big silvery-grey chunks.

Stephen, his eyes closed, breathed out through his nose and wiped his hand across his face. Globs of the stuff came off, sticking to his sleeve and fingers. He made a quick motion and it splattered on the sidewalk. "Thank you for that," he said, voice devoid of all emotion.

The leech rose above him, neck twisting like a serpent.

"I don't get paid enough for this."

oOo

"You don't get paid at all, Stephen."

"Well," Stephen said, walking through the foyer, dripping mucus and pus and thick, green blood, "I _should_."

Wong shook his head and turned to go back to the kitchen. "Go take a shower."

Stephen scrunched up his nose and sneered at the other man's back. " _Go take a shower_ ," he mocked under his breath.

"I heard that!"

oOo

Wong refused to let him put his clothing in the Sanctum's washing machine, which meant that Stephen dragged it to the nearest Laundromat—which just so happened to be across from a bookstore and a coffee shop—dressed in a pair of navy blue shorts and a matching ragged old sweatshirt he normally used for early morning jogs. A cup of green tea sat close to his arm, in reach when he lifted his hands up from his laptop's keyboard.

A man sat across from him in a white dress shirt.

Stephen glanced up, reached for his mug, took a sip of his tea, and turned his attention back to the scientific journal he had been sent to peer review. To be honest, it was nice knowing that he still had some semblance of sway in the scientific community—even though he could no longer do operations himself.

The one descried in the paper involved a brain surgery involving tumours, lasers, and minimal cutting into the skull.

It was good, but it could be better.

"You're a hard man to track down, Mister Strange."

 _At least some people in this world still remember that I'm a doctor._ Stephen took another sip of his tea and typed out a couple more notes about the procedure. Seeing it done in person would be better than a YouTube video. He'd have to email Christine.

"How'd it happen? Self experimentation? Or did you always have your... unique abilities?"

 _Self... what?_ "Sorry?" Stephen finally looked up from the paper, his eyes narrowed.

The man across from him leaned back in his chair, smirking ever so slightly. Though, he didn't say anything.

A minute passed, then two. When the man gave no sign of speaking, Stephen turned his attention back to the paper and finished off his tea. He knew the power play. He'd played it often enough when he was a doctor; using silence to make interns, nurses, and other doctors to spit out secrets of things they'd did wrong.

It was a nasty thing to do.

It also meant that Stephen was perfectly fine with ignoring the man that had shoved himself into the sorcerer's space. His laundry would be done in ten minutes and then he could go back to the Sanctum. He typed out another sentence of notes.

His laptop closed and Stephen breathed out slowly through his nose. "I'm sorry," he said, turning his full irritation to the man who had interrupted his work, "but if you don't keep your hands to yourself you might find yourself missing a few fingers."

Objects infused with magic started to get their own personality after a while. His cloak a prime example.

The laptop was currently going through its 'teething' phase—taking a snap at anyone who wasn't him.

Pictures were laid out on the table.

Nepal.

Hong Kong.

New York.

London.

The Beyoncé concert from a week back.

He looked at the man that had been post accident and pre-Kamar-Taj and winced a little.

God, he'd been a mess.

"Doesn't the United States Government have something better to do than stalking one of its citizens?" Stephen half wished he had savoured the tea a little more. But he decided that wishing was pointless and got up to get a second cup—this time to go. Dallying at the counter was easy—the cashier was willing to talk to him about Greenwich, the price of apartments, the events that would be happening in the park.

The man sitting at his table looked his head was going to explode so, when Stephen did get his tea, he returned to his seat, tested the temperature, and took a short sip.

"What's your power, huh? Teleportation?"

Blinking a couple of times, Stephen stared at the man. "I'm sorry, _what_?" _Power_? Like a meta human?

"Here you are," a finger poked his face where he was standing in New York after a morning jog, "in New York, zero-five hundred hours—"

Stephen almost snorted tea up his nose at that.

"—and one hour later, you're in London."

Oh.

 _Oh._

Right.

He had gone to help the new London Master with the rebuilding process after the attack by the Zealots. They'd gotten a meal together, talked about plans.

"So, let me get this straight," Stephen leaned back in his chair. The heat from the cup was soothing the small little aches that had risen up in his fingers when he'd been typing. "You think I took a jog in Greenwich and then went home, took a shower, changed clothing, and then _teleported_ to London all to have lunch with someone?"

"How else would you explain it, Mister Strange?"

 _Doctor. It's_ _ **Doctor**_ _Strange._

"I'm one of three triplets."

The alarm announcing his laundry was done went off and Stephen packed up his book bag before the man could stop him.

oOo

"You must be more careful, Stephen," Wong said the moment he had finished hanging up his clothing and telling the story of what had happened in the coffee shop. "The United Nations have been trying their hardest to crack down on those who break the Sokovia Accords ever since Captain America went on the run."

"I will be," Stephen promised.

Later on that evening, he sat down in the courtyard, surrounded by tiny sprouts in too big pots. The laptop was in front of him and he waved his fingers, scrolling through pages and news sites. He had looked up the law, reading it word for word and frowning the further down he got.

DNA and power level testing? Those who had innate powers forced to wear tracking bracelets? Not being able to use their powers in any country except their own? And that wasn't even mentioning "will not be allowed to take part in any police, military, or espionage activities".

Did that include self defence? Did he break the Accords while saving the entire world from being consumed by Dormammu?

Stephen rolled his eyes and ran both hands down his face.

Someone in the government suspected he had superpowers which could mean that if they so much as caught a sign of him using _anything_ he could be arrested.

"You look troubled, Stephen."

"This is the stupidest thing I've ever read."

Wong sat down beside him, head tilted up to look at the darkening sky. "I doubt the truth of that."

Stephen huffed and shot his friend a partially amused, partially exasperated look. "Fine," he admitted and shuddered, remembering a particular intern's paper. "There's been worse. _But,_ " Cutting off Wong before he could start, Stephen glanced back over the law, "this makes my job a lot harder."

"Nonsense," Wong patted him heartedly on the back. "There are always spells to get around laws like this—you must simply have to learn them."

That was also true.

"I need to think," Stephen said, getting up to his feet and closing the laptop. "And I might be spending a couple of days in the library."

"Are you asking me to watch the Sanctum while you go terrorize my books and the students? Stephen? _Stephen!_ "

oOo

Taking the table that witnessed his first use of the Eye of Agamotto, Stephen surrounded himself with books. Mind magic, tumultuous spells, and glamour. He read through them like he read through everything, devouring knowledge that the Kamar-Taj library held before turning to the books in the Sanctum. The only breaks he took were to stop by the deli for Wong's sandwiches, go grocery shopping to restock the fridge and pantry, and sleep.

"Mordo was right," Wong said after the fifth night, Stephen already on his tenth book and forced to place it down to enjoy his dinner. "You do have a gift for the mystic arts."

There was a strange pang in Stephen's chest at the sound of his old teacher's name. "You've said that," he said, careful to keep the discussion away from the other sorcerer.

"That's true," Wong nodded once and sat down across from the other man. The two of them sat in silence for a while, comfortable with the lack of conversation and pleased to just flip through books they've already read or hadn't quite gotten to.

"What books do you have on making relics?"

Wong looked up. "Relics?"

Stephen smiled slowly. "Yeah— _relics_."

oOo

"So not only do I have to learn how to infuse magic into an object, I have to learn four different _languages_ for each type of magic I want to infuse?"

"Are you saying it's too much, Stephen?"

"... Give me the damn books, Wong."

oOo

"Mind magic is too unsteady to be done by hand," Stephen said, dropping his tower of books down onto the kitchen table. "It's like brain surgery—delicate, with just the wrong movement ruining the recipient forever."

In his past, Stephen wouldn't have bothered; choosing to do difficult operations by hand was just another way to show the others that he was _better_. It was a pat on the ego—though a dangerous one. Sometimes Stephen thought about all those patients he had taken that risk with and winced.

"So you want to create a relic that works like a scalpel?" Wong frowned at the mess and slapped at Stephen with a spatula. "None of that in the kitchen."

A portal appeared on the table, and Wong heard the books land heavily somewhere upstairs and possibly in the general vicinity of the study.

"Not like a scalpel but an extension of myself. A pre-programmed surgery, so to speak." Stephen fished plates out of the cabinets. "So the work is already done, I just have to activate the relic."

"Like an _obliviate_ spell."

Stephen snapped around so fast he swayed dangerously too far to the left and managed to catch himself just before ramming into the table. "You're read _Harry Potter_?"

"Seven books about an underground magic society?" Wong took the plates and scooped out the food. "Honestly, Stephen, what sorcerer wouldn't read something like that?"

oOo

Stephen trimmed off the first of the rose blossoms, making sure to be rid of the expensive petals so the roots could focus on digging themselves deeper into the soil. Clippers shook heavily in his hand and he dropped them—none too gently—onto the pathway. The sound of metal hitting stone made him wince.

"Is it unethical?" he asked the bud in his palm as if it could possibly know any type of answers.

The flower was silent.

Sighing, Stephen turned his eyes up to the clear sky, tracing the small puffs of clouds with his eyes and enjoying the sunshine as it warmed his shoulders and face. The Hippocratic oath was a swear to do no harm—something he'd already broken in this new life. Man's blood stained his fingers and no matter how hard he could vouch for self-defence—he had still held the zealot's head between his hands while asking for Christine to up the voltage.

But _consent_. Consent in the medical field was always tricky. People could say no and walk out of the ER, dying by themselves and refusing medical treatment. It was the _rules_ and no matter how much he could want to save someone's life sometimes that person would just disagree.

It was fair—their body, their choice. Women had the right to get operations done without the consent or even knowledge of their husbands (that was something that had almost caused a fist-fight in the doctor's lounge between him and some douchebag of an orthopaedic surgeon. The only thing that had stopped it was Christine; hands on each of their chests, forcing them away from each other), people leave AMA, and they could say no to an operation that would save their life.

Mind magic would remove the ability to say 'yes' or 'no' and Stephen Strange was many things—egotistical, narcissistic, a complete and utter _dick_ —but he wasn't... _that_.

Groaning, Stephen rubbed his hands down his face.

"I know that face," Wong said, sitting down beside him. "What is troubling you, Stephen?"

"The question of consent."

Wong blinked once, but his expression never changed. "And why are you thinking of consent?"

Narrowed eyes turned to the librarian and Stephen pursed his lips. "What are the rules of Kamar-Taj about using magic on an unsuspecting individual?" But when Wong opened his mouth to respond, Stephen was already shaking his head. "No," he said, "no, I don't want to know."

The small rose sprout swayed in a light breeze.

"I need to go back to the library."

"You spent five days in the library."

Stephen nodded. "I did," he said, "And I wasn't looking for the right answer."

The hardened expression on Wong's face lightened to something that was the beginning of a smile. "Good," he said. "Now you are _growing_."

oOo

In the end, it was _Harry Potter_ that had given him the answer. Stephen, in the early hours of the morning, sat outside the Sanctum and carved runes into stone. Protection. Strength. Safety. Memory. He didn't want people to forget that 177a Bleecker Street existed-but he wanted them not to notice it, not to care about it, and—only if they were _really_ trying—not to approach. It was a ward to get people to simply go away.

An active 'no solicitors' sign.

Sure, if people really tried, they could get through.

But they'd have to have a will stronger than the Sanctum.

And the Sanctum was a pretty stubborn building to begin with.

oOo

Stephen borrowed the star charts and celestial sorcery books from the Hong Kong Sanctum. Borrowed without asking, but he had every intention of returning them.

 _After_ he copied every single one of them and added them to his own library.

It wasn't as if anyone could be angry with him—the Master of Hong Kong had been at Kamar-Taj and Stephen hadn't _needed_ the books right away but he'd _wanted_ them.

He even left a note!

" _Strange_!"

Stephen winced as Master Xu's voice echoed through his Sanctum. "Sorry," he murmured to the books and slapped down a duplication spell that reeked of old vellum, drying ink, and dust. One book became two, five star charts became many, and he was stacking them as soon as they were done, creating two separate piles.

Magicking the copies away, he summoned the planetarium and moved about, looking as if he was working when Xu came into his library. Wong was on his heels, but both paused at the sight of Stephen and his library filled with stars.

"Apologies, Master Xu," Stephen said, waving his hand so the cosmos swirled around them. It was nothing more than a projection spell—but it was beautiful with its soft stars and swirling galaxies. "I had a sudden pressing need to check on some of Master Daniel's old notes but you were in a meeting with your students."

Xu was a thin man, though that didn't stop him from being intimidating with his arms crossed into his sleeves. "Strange," he said, fond exasperation slipping between his words. "It is customary for one Master to ask another if they may borrow from the other's library."

"I left a note," Stephen said, sheepishly.

Wong rolled his eyes.

oOo

The roses were growing, slowly taking over the pot. Stephen had carefully trimmed off every bud—it wasn't the plant's job to look beautiful just yet—so that the roots could go deeper, to get stronger. Thorns gestured threateningly from the stems, leaves were lifted towards the sky.

Many of the other plants had grown and flowered and turned the small backyard into a colourful array of petals and bees and butterflies.

Strange brushed his hand across one of the rose's leaves.

In a year, the others would be coming back, renewed with ease, but the rose...

The roses would _bloom_.

oOo

Rainy days made his knuckles swell and the joints in his hands feel every movement of pins and steel. His hands had been a Frankenstein project—a mess of scars and metal and flesh. The rain caused flashes of thunderstorms in his hands where every flex of fingers caused burning agony arch through the nerves, up his wrists and into his arms.

It was those days where he dropped ceramic mugs, spilling tea and sharp broken hearts across the floor that were left there to dry and be picked up later.

(The Sanctum did that—piecing together the mug and wiping up the floor.)

Stephen had almost gone looking for Wong, but it seemed like the librarian knew it was going to be a bad day and had vanished into Kamar-Taj. He practiced spells without the finger movements—it was all about intent. Intent, intent, _intent_.

The levitation spell failed for the sixth time and Stephen laid his body down in bed and fled using astral projection. He followed people on the street, sat down in museums, and watched the Hudson pass by.

Hours ticked by and he waited until the sun had vanished over the New York skyline before returning to the Sanctum.

Wong was there, sitting by his bedside, book in hand. He had placed blue heat pads over battered, broken fingers.

Stephen fell back into his body and blinked his groggy eyes open. "Wong?" he murmured.

"I looked at the weather channel," Wong said, not looking up from his book. "It looks like the rain will clear up by then."

"Thank you," Stephen said, leaning back into the pillows. The words were heavy, holding more meaning than their two syllables allowed.

Wong looked up from his book. "You're welcome, Stephen."


End file.
